


The New Retro

by arbitraryspace



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Friendship, Humor, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-01
Updated: 2010-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:45:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitraryspace/pseuds/arbitraryspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleven brings his unique fashion savvy to the world of fancy dress costumes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Retro

After two hours of raiding the wardrobe room, Amy and Rory were kitted up in mostly-authentic Guinevere and Lancelot costumes, while the Doctor was still digging listlessly through piles of old scarves. Amy was beginning to lose her patience. Trying on clothes was fun, sure, but the embroidery on her dress was starting to itch, and that evil ambassador's fancy dress party was not going to infiltrate itself.

Unfortunately, the Doctor seemed determined to take his sweet time, even after Amy punched him in the arm. Honestly. _Boys_.

"The trouble, Amy, is that I'm supposed to dress up as someone else," the Doctor said, in between picking up mufflers and frowning at them. "And I've already worn everything here that fits, while dressed entirely as myself. No, no, that wouldn't do at all. The ambassador's psychics would certainly sense the insult."

"You've even worn this?" Amy held up what could only be described as a technicolor dream coat. If the dream happened to be a bad acid trip.

The Doctor sniffed, and continued his search. "Yes, even that. That was an excellent coat. Children loved it. Children and poisonous frogs. It was cool. It was _ahead of its time_."

"Okaaay." Amy waited until the Doctor was distracted, and then dropped the coat behind a large chest of drawers, hopefully not to be seen again for several decades. Because she was just that good of a friend.

Rory wandered off to check the football score in the kitchen – the TARDIS had, for some reason, picked up on a series of Leeds United radio broadcasts from 1964 – while Amy wondered if she was going to have to physically wrestle the Doctor into one of those dorky opera capes. She was halfway through formulating her plan of attack when the Doctor stumbled across an dusty old wardrobe, carved in an unassuming bleached-beige wood. He opened the wardrobe doors and rummaged through a series of identical cricket uniforms, before stopping at a heavy black clump of cloth.

The Doctor removed it almost reverently from its hangar.

"Forgot I had this. I couldn't," the Doctor said to himself. "Or, rather, I could. It's so rubbish. He did love rubbish. I'm taller, but also thinner, and if the fabric--" He made a series of faces that Amy couldn't decipher, before his expression came alive with a familiar mischief. "Hold on, Amy. I need to get my sonic. And my follicular accelerator."

"Uh, sure?" Amy leaned against the wall.

The Doctor ducked into a storage closet, and Amy was treated to a number of crashes and funny buzzing sounds before he emerged with his new look. He was decked out in tight black velvet with puffy sleeves, and had grown a deeply misguided beard. His hair was gelled back by what looked to be a minor oil slick. Friends shouldn't let friends wear that kind of style in public.

Instead of ordering him back into the closet, Amy steered the Doctor in front of the three-way mirror.

"What are you supposed to be, then?" Amy giggled. "Princess of the goatee planet? The wicked fairy from a gay men's community theatre production of Sleeping Beauty?"

" _I_ am--" The Doctor caught himself. Held his tongue. Then struck a sort of pose, to Amy's surprise.

"Well, I'm a bit sexy, don't you think? Wearing this? It's a good silhouette," he confided, almost shyly, as though he were revealing some great and terrible personal secret, or par with confessing a fetish for lawn ornaments or a fondness for Take That albums. Amy couldn't blame him. She wouldn't be caught dead admitting that she liked that hideous outfit.

Though she had to admit that the velvet wasn't half-bad for the Doctor's ass. Amy wasn't doing anything more than looking, mind -- she was a happily married woman. She just happened to be a happily married woman with eyes.

The Doctor reached out and touched his reflection, running a gloved hand across the surface of the mirror. His eyes were alight with amusement, but his smile was sad, and Amy wasn't thick enough to think that she knew what he saw in the looking glass. "I'm a mad, bad man, Amy Pond," he said. "I could do mad, bad things."

Things were about to get maybe a bit weird when Rory saved the day by tromping back into the room and clearing his throat.

"Can we get going? These straps chafe." Amy's nurse in shining armour grimaced, clattering to a halt. "Nothing ever chafed when I was plastic," he muttered.

Amy ignored Rory's griping; he looked cute in that getup, and he still had a way with plastic, and she'd be sure to make both of those things clear to him once their mission was over. She grabbed the Doctor's forearm and pulled him safely out of his thoughts.

"Right. Come on, you. We've got a party to crash."


End file.
